I have a kid. Just one. That's plenty.

One of the joys of having kids is that they will expose your mistakes, usually with a loud voice and a wagging finger.

A few years back my daughter and I made a trip to our favorite store, Target. I wanted some giant plastic storage bins for our Christmas decorations because I was tired of schlepping 18 boxes down from the attic every year. She wasn't quite six at the time and hadn't really started questioning me. Yet.

At Tar-jay we find the huge bins I want. They even have wheels. I like things with wheels.

As I take two from the shelf, my kid says, "Where are you going to put those?"

"In the trunk."  My mid-sized car had one of the biggest trunks you've ever seen for a mid-sized car, so big that it had a glow-in-the-dark latch on the inside to free yourself should you get stuck in there. Good for idiots, bad for kidnappers.

"Will they fit?" my daughter asks. Five years old. Mind your business.

"Yes."

We head to the register. She studies the bins with a concerned look.

"Are you sure they'll fit?" she says.

"Yes. The trunk is huge." She doesn't seem convinced.

After we buy them and head to the car, she says it again, this time with certainty.

"I don't think they're going to fit."

"Will you hush? They'll fit. Stop saying that."

We get to the car and I open the trunk. I look at the trunk, then I look at the bins.

Shit.

The kid is right. I don't tell her that, though. I tell her to get in the car.

"Why?" Because your dad wants to fail in peace.

I buckle her into her car seat, turn on the AC and radio to distract her, then go back to the trunk. The trunk lid is up, of course, which is good -- she can't see what I'm doing.

The bins don't fit. Not lengthwise. Not sideways. Not together and not separately. I can hang them out the back and tie down the top, but I have no rope. We could go back inside to get some, but then the kid would know she was right. I'm not ready to give up just yet.

I try to jam them in again, even though I know it's pointless, just like when you keep checking the refrigerator when you know there's nothing in there to eat.

It's hot. I'm sweating. I'm pissed. I want the bins and I'm not returning them. But they won't fit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I stop and think.

Just then I hear a sweet little muffled voice sing out from inside the car.

"TOLLLLD YOUUUU!"

I laugh. How can I not? I open the car door and my kid has a big smile on her face and a spark in her eyes.

"I told you," she said.

"Yes, you did." I said. "You're a smart girl."

Then I give her a kiss for being so damned entertaining.